THE SECOND SATURDAY

The next envelope belonged to Daniel.

This time the note read:

Take Daniel to Lawson Park.

Underneath:

Bring what’s in the hall closet.

We crossed the street and entered Walter’s empty house.

The place smelled exactly as I remembered.

Coffee.

Old books.

Wood polish.

Daniel opened the hall closet.

On the top shelf sat an old baseball glove.

The second he saw it, his entire body changed.

“No.”

Rebecca looked at him.

“Daniel.”

“No.”

He pulled the glove down anyway.

It was small.

Child-sized.

His childhood glove.

Ethan stood quietly near the doorway.

Daniel turned toward him.

“My son played baseball at Lawson Park for six years.”

His voice sharpened.

“I invited Dad to dozens of games.”

Nobody spoke.

“He always had a reason.”

His knees hurt.

The parking was difficult.

Too sunny.

Too crowded.

Too cold.

Too far.

Daniel laughed bitterly.

“But somehow he could sit on that porch every Saturday watching you cut grass.”

Ethan lowered his eyes.

Daniel immediately realized how that sounded.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you.”

Ethan nodded.

“I know.”

“I spent years asking my father to show up for his grandson.”

Daniel looked down at the glove.

“He never did.”

Ethan studied him.

Then said quietly:

“Maybe you should still go.”

That stopped everyone.

Daniel finally nodded.

At Lawson Park, the baseball fields were empty.

The season had already ended.

Leaves blew across the bleachers.

A groundskeeper was waiting near the equipment shed.

When he saw us, he asked:

“Daniel Hargrove?”

Daniel looked almost annoyed.

“Yes.”

The man disappeared inside and returned carrying a weatherproof plastic container.

“Your father asked me to keep this.”

Daniel didn’t speak.

Inside was another letter.

And three ticket stubs from youth baseball games.

Daniel stared at them.

Rebecca whispered:

“What are those?”

Daniel checked the dates.

Then sat down hard on the nearest bench.

Those dates belonged to three of his son Caleb’s games.

Walter had attended.

Not in the bleachers.

Not beside Daniel.

Not where his grandson could see him.

Walter had parked beyond the right-field fence and watched from his truck.

Three times.

In the letter, Walter described details.

Caleb hitting a triple and stumbling around second base.

Caleb arguing with an umpire.

Daniel pacing behind the dugout during a close final inning.

They were details Walter couldn’t have known unless he’d actually been there.

Daniel’s hands began shaking.

“He came.”

Rebecca sat beside him.

“He came.”

Daniel stared across the empty field.

“Then why didn’t he walk over?”